


Marked

by Lamprey



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamprey/pseuds/Lamprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the Outsider keeps Corvo's visits to the Void interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

****He settles his fingers in the valleys of Corvo’s knuckles, white against the marble column, drags nails down, leaves inky trails that dissipate into the vacuum of the Void. Fingertips drag past the raised surface of his Mark. The Outsider tips his head ever so slightly and digs nails deep into the back of Corvo’s hand, watching as embers blossom from his fingers to color the Mark in brilliant orange.

  
Corvo winces, and sucks the Void through his nostrils sharply as he feels the Outsider press deeper inside, his knees on the tenuous cliff of bracing and buckling. Tendrils of inky smoke curve lazily around Corvo’s hips, tickling his skin so lightly that Corvo has a mind that he’s imagining their dancing, teasing touches. He bites his lips hard, damming up a moan of pain that crashes against his closed lips. Blood trickles and there’s iron on his tongue.  
  
Pain acts like a beacon, and Corvo hones in on it. The glowing Mark, orange embers at its edges, stings like a cut sunk into salt water. The bones in his knees grind against each other, stiff and muscles burning and cramped, pants tangled, tight, chafing. The Outsider, darkness and ambiguity presented as a man, opening him up, one miserable inch at a time, feeling like a man (but never was a man and always was). His pace, all staccato and inquiring, observing the way Corvo’s hips tremble when he withdraws, clinging; the tension that runs like lines in his muscles when the Outsider pushes forward. Stinging pain on Corvo’s lips.  
  
The pain only clears his head moderately. Corvo knows that the bloodstain is still there a mere few paces behind him, blossoming like a heart (a love) crushed underfoot. He can see his hands are stained red to the bone, even as he stares at his pale, clammy skin. He can hear the echoing mourn of whalesong around him, inside him, pounding relentlessly against his ear drums.  
  
He can still feel the heat down there, somewhere trapped between the Outsider and the marble column, an ache insistent on being cared for.  
  
Corvo swallows another moan bubbling to the surface, imagines himself swallowing the gaping hole in his chest, burying the damn rats and mask shaped like Death. Forgetting the black eyes set in dark circles set in marble skin and the nails scratching down the back of his hand, down his back along the juts of his backbone, forget his hips and his heat, his cold heat filling him to bursting.  
  
Forget the teeth that are now crushing Corvo’s ear lobe, chilling his skin with cold breath. Ignore, ignore, forget, maybe this will be over quickly.  
  
“I’m not used to being ignored,” the Outsider whispers, Corvo can hear the smirk at the edge of his mouth, clipping all his syllables. “Or being this bored.”  
  
He slams into Corvo, with purpose, without passion, his fingers leaving bruises, red marks, and ink that spirals into nothing on the jut of his hipbones. Corvo opens his mouth in a scream that doesn’t issue forth.  
  
“I had thought that doing it here would make it a little more interesting but you’re just a boring thing of denial and regrets.” The Outsider clucks his tongue, like a child bored with a toy he had just tore the head off of. “Perhaps I’ll go visit that interesting little girl in the tower,” he whispers, words that bounce around Corvo’s ear. Corvo’s breath hangs hitched in his throat.  
  
“Ask the little lady to help me get this beating thing out of her mother to give it to her dear Lord Protector in a red box with a nice white bow. Maybe I’ll bottle her screams in a flask for you.” There is no malice, no threat in the Outsider’s words, only truths or truths to come or truths that can come to be.  
  
Corvo slumps, his body, his downturned face with his disheveled hair framing his unshaven face asking without words. What do you want?  
  
The Outsider marks Corvo’s ear with a light kiss. “Resist. Or insist,” he hisses, the harsh sounds vibrating across skin.  
  
Time stretches into forever or an instant, if there is even time in the Void.  
  
It’s a slow defeat, in the curve of his spine, in the way his head hangs a little lower, in the way he bends into the Outsider, pushing his hips against the hips of a man who isn’t quite a man, a toneless “please” falling from Corvo’s lips. His trembling hands make a downward arc like a pendulum and he grabs the Outsider’s hands on his hips, clinging to them like a life buoy.  
  
Then, he moves. Because he needs to, for night of sleep for Emily safe from the Void, for the Outsider’s amusement, sitting bored in the Void, for a coiling tension that fills his head as much as the incessant whalesong of the Void. He curls his fingers around the Outsider’s bone thin wrists like prison bars and uses them as leverage and pound himself into the Outsider, impaling himself deeper by the inch. Corvo burns like flames fueled by whale oil, the Outsider chills like ice burning his skin.  
  
The Outsider does not say a word, but only spreads his fingers on Corvo’s hips and syncs his rhythm with Corvo’s desperate crescendo. He is pleased, and Corvo only knows from the deepening dig of his cold, pale fingers, the tendrils of smoke or black or clawed fingers undulating like kelp underwater in the corner of his eye.  
  
There is pain, a lot of it. And it’s sweet, and perfect and sure and so assuredly wrong. Corvo’s back arches back further and further, his sweat-soaked ragged hair falling away from his face as he tilts it up to look without seeing the gazebo’s ceiling, ends of his hair tickling his back, “please’s” falling robotically from his mouth, interrupted by gasps.  
  
Someone’s screaming, it’s Corvo, he dimly realizes, and he chokes out the rest of the scream in spasms, its sound swallowed by the void. Nothing echoes in the Void, unless the Outsider wishes it to. His seed splatters on the column they are in front of, barely noticeable from the white marble surface.  
  
Bony, cold as death fingers slip themselves into the grooves of Corvo’s ribs and squeeze him tight, draining his lungs of air. A cold chin with the ghost of a stubble rasps against his shoulder and breath like a wind that strips the life from you tumbles over his skin, speckled with goosebumps.  
  
“Corvo,” the Outsider states, like a name called to summon a prisoner to his death, as he drives himself into his marked assassin and fills him with something liquid, something filling, something that feels too real. “My dear…” the Outsider adds. And he lets go of Corvo and slips out of him with a slick slide and Corvo falls through the column and it dissolves like a cloud. The whole Void and the Outsider dissolves like steam in cold air and Corvo falls until he doesn’t and jerks awake in his bed, in his nightclothes.  
  
Corvo winces, and pulls the drawstring of his pants down to see five long bruises on each hip, blossoming purple and blue in the perfect shapes of fingers.


End file.
